Solace
by celestial1
Summary: "You are dead on your feet, Dragonslayer." After the Battle of the Five Armies, Bard's children conspire to get him some much needed rest. Spoilers for BotFA, clearly. Movie!verse, no shipping, shamelessly flufftastic.


**author's note.** So Bard, am I right? Bard is the most precious little sweetheart in all of Middle-Earth, and also two girls and a boy is the _exact right_ number/gender of children to have. I like to think that after the BotFA everybody wants a piece of our dear Bard, and while he's being passed around between elves and dwarves and men, everyone just assumes that the other has fed him and let him rest and dressed his wounds. Also Thranduil may be testing him because Thranduil is just a little bit creepy, curse you Lee Pace and your diabolically magnificent eyebrows.

This is set firmly in movie-verse, as the movie Bard is a great deal more interesting than the book version. I've only seen the movie once so far, so I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies slash incoherent fangirling. Also I wrote this in one day and I have to post it real quick before I lose my nerve. Many thanks to **knackard** for beta-ing and all around awesomeness.

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><p>The thing Bard discovers right away is that Elves aren't subject to physical limits the way that Men are. It's been three days since the battle ended - scarcely a week since Bard stumbled across a ragtag band of Dwarves at the mouth of the river - and he's barely had an hour's rest in all that time. The Elven King has had him riding back back and forth between Erebor and Dale for meeting after meeting, negotiation after negotiation - and as Bard's backside can attest, he is a bargeman, not a horseman. When he isn't listening to Thranduil and Dain and Gandalf and little Bilbo go back and forth, round and round, there are his own people to look after. The refugees of Esgaroth can't possibly hope to winter in Dale without adequate food or fuel or even homes, and there are few he can trust. Bard's got wounds that need dressing, and he hasn't seen his children in days, though he's been assured that they are being looked after. But whenever he thinks he can slip away for a few moments' peace, another Elven courier rides up and informs him that he is wanted by the King. And Bard isn't about to show weakness in front of Thranduil, whom he quite frankly finds terrifying. He rode an elk, he's hardly the type you trifle with.<p>

Bard doesn't even know why he needs to be present at this council - it appears to be more of the same; nobody has asked _his_ opinion in a good hour and a half. It's warm inside the tent and the wine is making him drowsy. Dain pounds the table, eyebrows bristling, while Thranduil looks intolerably bored. "When you have lived as long as I have," the Elven-King intones, "you won't see it that way," and Bard thinks this meeting is never, _ever_ going to end, when there's a disturbance outside the tent. The red-haired She-elf - Tauriel, he thinks her name was - ducks under one of the flaps.

"A thousand apologies," Tauriel begins. She appears to have been crying. "My lord Bard, you are wanted."

Across the table, Thranduil huffs in irritation. "Is it _terribly_ urgent?" he demands before Bard can answer. "We're in the middle of an important negotiation."

Bard stands up from the table so quickly it makes his head swim. "My people need me, Your Majesty," he says, trying not to sound too eager. "I will return as soon as I can."

He is half afraid the She-elf will have a horse tied up outside - his backside being bruised from riding and numb from sitting, Bard thinks that would be the final straw. But the Elf-woman means to walk, apparently. He practically has to run to keep up with her.

Her sudden appearance, and the redness of her eyes, have of course given Bard pause. "My children," Bard murmurs as soon as they are out of earshot, "are they all right? They haven't been -" The fear which is always there floats to the surface, a chunk of ice bobbing in a lake. "Are they -"

"The children are fine," Tauriel says, not looking back at him. "I've just been to see them."

"Then what -"

"You are dead on your feet, Dragonslayer. And I am well acquainted with the long-windedness of Elves."

A rescue, then. "I'm told that you -" An enormous yawn split Bard's head nearly in two. "I'm told that you brought my girls to safety when the town burned. I am in your debt."

Tauriel tosses him half a smile over her shoulder. "They are beautiful girls," she says gently. "Their mother must have been as well."

Somehow he doesn't mind it as much, coming from her. "Aye," he assents, and they fall back into silence.

* * *

><p>It's been only three days, but already a small section of the city has been cleared. Rubble has been hauled away and there are fires here and there, knots of people warming their hands between tasks. Bard feels the eyes of his people upon him, hears their whispers trailing in his wake. <em>Dragon-slayer<em>, they are calling him. _King_.

Tauriel leads him to a little hut, tucked away and lacking only a few tiles from its roof. It's the exact sort of place Bard would have picked out, if he could have spared a few hours to seek accommodation for his family. "Here," Tauriel says, and ushers him inside.

It's warm inside, and dark but for a fire and a lantern, but his children are there - as his heart had known they would be. There are a few sticks of furniture, a low cot in the corner piled high with skins. And then there are his children's arms around him - warm, steady, only a low chatter of voices and not the shrieks they had given as they stood on the edge of the lake. This time they haven't been in fear for his life, only perhaps his sanity. And he wraps his arms around them and feels the fear and anxiety of the last few days slide from his shoulders like melted snow.

Sigrid is the first to detach herself; she slips away from the group and speaks quietly to the She-elf who is poised in the doorway. Bard strains his ears to catch their murmured conversation. "In council with the King… so sorry about the Dwarf… thank you… your herbs." And then: "how much time can you give us?"

"Twenty-four hours, at least," he hears the Elf say, "I have no need for sleep."

"Thank you again," says Sigrid, and Bard watches his eldest daughter put her arms around the shoulders of the Elf-maiden. An odd friendship, he thinks, but a fitting one.

Sigrid closes the door and takes charge. "Off with your coat, Father. Tilda, back to work." Tilda rolls her eyes a little - her sister has her crushing herbs in a bowl with a pestle nearly as long as her arm. Sigrid waggles her fingers into a slash that goes clean through the back of Bard's coat. "Honestly, Father," she teases, "you might try to be a _little_ more careful. I just patched this coat last week."

Bard hisses a little as she examines his back - there's a slash through both of his shirts to match the one in his coat, and one in his flesh as well. It's not deep, but it's crusted over with ash and dried blood. Sigrid dips a cloth into something warm and wet, has Bard straddle a chair and begins to clean it away. She's spent way too much time cleaning up his messes, Bard thinks. She deserves so much better than this.

"This place," he says looking around with appraising eyes, "how did you find it? It's just right."

"Bain did it," Tilda pipes up from her place at the table. "He told us he would find us a home, and he did."

"Is this true?" Bard searches out his son's eyes. The boy still looks a little stunned, not that Bard can blame him, all things considered. (_Stay still, son_. _Look at me._) "You did good, son, you understand? I'm proud of you." He looks around their new home - a fire built, something bubbling in an iron pot, all of them safe and warm. "All of you, I'm proud. Your ma would be too."

He doesn't mention their mother much, but if they are surprised, none of the children show it. She must have been on their minds too - she used to lull them to sleep with tales of the once great city of Dale. He feels Sigrid slacken the pace of her strokes on his wound, then pick it up again. "Tilda," he motions across the table, "what have you got there?"

Tilda passes the bowl across the table, watches him taste a pinch of herbs and laughs as he makes a face at its bitterness. "Where did you get this?" Bard asks. "All your sister's herbs were burnt up in the fire."

"They're from the elves," Tilda says, "and they're not for eating. They don't taste very good anyway."

"Tauriel brought them," Sigrid adds. "She's promised me seedlings in the spring. Bain, how is the stew? You're supposed to be stirring."

"It looks good to me," Bain announces, crouching by the hearth. "Can we eat now? I'm starving."

"You always are," Sigrid teases, and Bard smiles. The boy's appetite is legendary - Bard swears he's grown six inches in the past year. "All right, dish it up. The rest of you can eat while I finish."

Sigrid's a competent cook as well as a healer, Bard thinks as Bain ladles stew into wooden trenchers. Sigrid dresses his back with a poultice of herbs, and gives him a clean shirt of worn linen - it doesn't exactly fit, but with clean clothes more precious than gold at the moment, he doesn't complain. She clucks over the bump on his skull dealt to him by the late Master, but it's little more than tender now, and he's not seeing double anymore. His ribs are bruised so that it hurts to breathe, and his stomach growls loudly enough that it can be heard across the room. All told, Bard considers himself nearly unscathed.

He's got a nasty burn which runs the length of his forearm, and he awkwardly spoons up his stew left-handed until a giggling Tilda insists on feeding him herself. Sigrid patiently cleans the blackened and blistered flesh, treats the burn with more of her herbs and a length of bandage, and it feels so _good_ to be here with them. Tilda's humming, Bain's stoking the fire, and Sigrid bends over her work. The firelight reflecting off her hair makes her look like her mother in a way that pierces her father's heart.

"You girls ought to have new gowns," Bard says, realizing in his exhaustion that he makes little sense. "Gowns of the finest silk, and for you, Bain, an Elven bow and a sword, and books - we'll have books -"

"Silk?" Sigrid frowns a little as she ties off a bandage. "Where would I wear a silk gown, anyway?"

She looks so absurdly serious, with that little pucker between her eyebrows, and Bard can't stand it anymore. He loves his children so much that it _hurts_ - the things he has done, in the past week and the last seventeen years, it's all been for them. Sigrid's the nearest, and he clutches her to his chest with his good arm. Sobs like the world is ending, when in fact it is very much the opposite.

"Da?" Sigrid pulls away from him a little, searching his face with careful eyes. Worried that there's an injury she has missed. "Are you all right?"

Bard smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "I'm all right, love," he reassures her. "I'm more than all right." He pulls her into a one-armed embrace again, and kisses the top of her head, and beckons the other two with the fingers of his free hand. Tilda flings herself at her father this time - nearly knocking the wind out of him - and Bain hangs back, but only for a moment. Bard isn't sure how long he holds them there, the only precious things in the world to him. It's long enough for the fire to grow dim as he cries till he laughs, laughs till he cries.

* * *

><p>Later, Bard will swear that there was something in the stew, though Sigrid will deny it to her last breath. He has no memory of being ushered to the cot they've prepared - it's the only bed in their new home, he should have had the floor - or of having his boots tugged off and Bain pretending to gag at the smell. He's vaguely aware of having a cloak pulled up around his shoulders, of Tilda's little fingers patting his stubbled cheeks and a soft "sleep well, Da." After that he's not aware of anything for quite some time.<p>

_Is that your child? You cannot save him…_

_...you have nothing left…_

Bard awakes with a gasp, stiff and sore but otherwise unharmed. He's a little troubled not to recognize his surroundings, but he notices Tilda's rag doll - the one her mother made for her - tucked beneath his bandaged arm. Right. He remembers Sigrid patching him up and feeding him stew; he remembers making an embarrassing spectacle of himself and no doubt scaring the children.

The children - Bard pushes himself up on one elbow, sees his son and daughters quietly content at their various tasks. The shutters are open now and cold sunlight streams into their little hut - Bard notices bunches of drying herbs already hanging from the rafters, boots lined up neatly by the door. Like they've lived here for years. He's proud of his children, so proud. He sits up, perhaps a little too rapidly, groaning as the room swims before his eyes.

"Da! You're awake!" Without reservation Tilda climbs into the cot beside him, burrows her cold toes under the covers and nestles her head against his chest. Sigrid smiles up at her father from her baking, and Bain brings over a mug of something fragrant and warm.

"What time is it?" Bard asks between sips.

"It's after midday," Bain tells him, and Bard counts the hours backwards in his head. "You've been asleep for an entire day, lazybones."

Bard's face relaxes into a grin at his son's teasing. "Has anyone been looking for me?"

"Everyone has," Sigrid says. "You're wanted by elves, dwarves, and men alike. But Tauriel's guarding the door and she's under strict orders, you're not to be disturbed."

"Smart girl," he tells her. "You've done a fine job, all of you." And Bard finds he's not yet ready to leave this, the warmth and the solace, and so he allows himself to linger in the makeshift bed. He sips lazily at his drink while the children's voices ebb and flow around him.

Finally, reluctantly, Bard admits he must face his allies; Thranduil in particular is sure to be furious. He pushes himself a little unsteadily to his feet, ignoring Tilda's protest at the loss of her cozy nest. Sigrid changes the dressings on his back and his arm, declaring them much improved already thanks to her new store of herbs. Bain brings in more wood for the fire and then there's hot water for washing and even a shave, and Bard slips into his freshly repaired coat and steps blinking into the doorway.

"Good afternoon, Bard," Tauriel says with a small smile. Bard wonders if he will ever live down the ignominy of sleeping for an entire day under the conspiring watch of his children and an Elf. "I trust you are feeling refreshed?"

"I am, and I thank you for your service." Tauriel slips away silently before he can say further to her - back to her people, he supposes. Bain and Sigrid and Tilda come into the doorway beside him, the four of them surveying their new homeland.

Then as before, he feels eyes on him. Little knots of people gradually stop in their work and turn to stare at him, a current of whispers like a river. Finally one of the old wives of the village comes forward, tears in her eyes, and takes Bard by the hand - he finds himself being passed like a trophy among the refugees. Women kiss his cheeks, men clap him on the back and now they say openly the things which they had whispered the day before. _You slew the dragon. You have saved us all._

Bard swears his children are laughing at him in the doorway as he is borne aloft on a sea of well-wishers. And he thinks the same thing when the people had cheered him before - _I didn't do it for the lot of __**you**__, I did it for them_ - but he thinks it with a degree less bitterness now that he's warm and dry.

_These people need a leader_, Bard thinks, and admits ruefully to himself that he's the only one up to the task. It will be a tough job, between the settlement of a king's ransom in gold and the rebuilding of a ruined city, not to mention burying the dead. He's not looking forward to it. However, fortified by sleep and food and his children's love, he feels ready to begin.


End file.
